Epitome of a Tin Roof
by Ellen Jacee
Summary: There's no fairy godmother. And it's raining. What's a poor girl to do? Basically complete, but I may be adding a poem to the end.
1. Chapter 1

Epitome of a Tin Roof

Ella had been sweeping the floor when it began to rain.

It had started softly, making a soft pitter-pattering noise on the tin roof. She looked out the window, and there it was, softly hitting the ground in miniature explosions of water and earth, mixing with the dirt to make mud, which in turn dripped down the drainage ditches like thick gravy. Already, everything outside was coated in a thin layer of water that could almost pass for morning dew, if you were blind enough. And if you ignored the rain, and all that it brought with it. The noisy silence. The clean smell. The cool temperature. It all added up to make what rain, in its very essence, was.

She sighed, wistfully. If only the rain had the foresight to maybe have chosen a different night. Ella recalled her stepmother's kinder than usual words, permitting her to attend the night's ball – if she finished cleaning in time. Of course, her stepmother had known that Ella wouldn't be able to finish cleaning in time; it had all been carefully engineered. But to Ella, punishment was worth a night where no one knew your name, and where everyone thought you were someone you weren't, and never could be. She knew what was in her future – maybe an arranged marriage to someone boring, or old, or wrong for her in some other way. Maybe she'd continue to provide servitude for her stepfamily in return for room and board. Whatever the outcome, it wasn't going to suit her thirst for excitement. It wasn't going to feed into her love of fine clothing, or her adoration of theater. Tonight's ball was all she'd really had to look forward to in an endless sea of unpaid manual labor. And now, she couldn't go.

She couldn't bring herself to ruin the only faded memory of her mother she had left, a beautiful silver ball gown. She couldn't bring herself to put mud stains on the glass slippers, which all who called her a friend had saved money for to buy as their collective Christmas gift, just for Ella. The pretentious locket and matching tiara her so distant father had given her, before he'd died, were still treasures, no matter how little Ella had known him, or he her. The only possible thing she could wear to the ball were her stepsister's opera gloves, and Veronica would kill her if she found out Ella had gotten them soaked in the tumultuous rain.

_A carriage would solve everything,_ Ella found herself thinking, hoping. Then she reprimanded herself; no use crying over spilt milk. Hoping for a carriage would change nothing – not in the long run, anyway. In the short run, it might make her less content, more likely to stare out the window in dazed dissatisfaction, but later… it wouldn't matter. To Ella, most things weren't going to matter in the future. It was something she'd gotten used to – an understanding she'd made with herself in the years of seemingly endless tedium.

It began to rain harder. Ella could hear the round drops actively hitting the roof, trying to wear it away with a fierce iron-willed strength. She knew that the roof might win the battle, but the water would win the war. She'd seen roofs leak and corrode, all because of water damage. She'd actually been called upon to help fix the neighbor's roof, once. It had rained particularly hard that spring, and the leaks had filled buckets as fast as Ella could bail them out the window.

Ella, for all her memoirs of family and friends that she'd never gotten the chance to truly know, had no records of her real life – all she had were lies, glorious, beautiful lies, that she just wanted to live for one night – this night. This ball. Except, it was raining, and she wasn't going to ruin a lifetime of pleasant dreams for a single dream come true. The dream come true would be the end of everything. Ella didn't want that.

She'd thought long and hard about her situation, and come to the realization that in her specific case, living for dreams was perfectly justified. She had nothing else to live for; _that_ was certainly manifest. Reality was for those who could afford it, and Ella certainly couldn't. The rain, pouring in sheets over the town, further hammered _this _reality into Ella's understanding of herself and the world.

Dreams. Love. Hope.

Reality. Filth. Disrespect.

The rain, battering the roof in an endless tirade, slowly washed all of these ideals away, into the gutter with the gravy-like mud. Without touching her, it cleansed Ella of pretense, and pieced together her shattered resolve. Only then did she really understand what it meant to… well, to understand.

Ella had always thought she'd have something. And now, she didn't. It was as clear as anything she'd ever thought before. Indeed, she wondered at her lack of realization.

She had to do something, or she would continue to be nothing.

The trouble was, what could she do?

Run away?

No; that would be too much like running from her own troubles. And Ella, for all the airs that she put on, for all that she pretended to be, certainly didn't lack the courage to face her own fear – that she would be nothing. Forever.

The rain stimulated her to think. It's rhythmic beating on the tin roof was inspiring to her; it gave her mind a pattern to think in.

And then, she had it. It was simple, really.

And the rain had served no purpose but to completely and irreversibly change her mind.

Ah, the rain.**

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**Author's Note:** I think I'm getting bored too often this summer; I'm writing too many short contemplative oneshots. Well, this isn't a oneshot. Or at least, I don't think so. I'm writing a continuation and a plot. It'll be like a writing warmup, or something. I don't know. But I thought this turned out okay, seeing as it was spawned from boredom.

Well, and the fact that it wasn't even really a fairytale fic originally. I just got the idea of rain hitting a roof, and wanted to put it on fanfic, so I adapted the idea to Cinderella. And I don't think it completely sucks. I mean, the ending isn't so great, but it's not that bad.

Hmm. Well. I would certainly appreciate reviews. Thanks to any and all reviewers!


	2. Chapter 2

Epitome of a Tin Roof - Chapter Two of Who Knows How Many

Ella had dreamed. Forever she had dreamed, and never had she really thought about what dreaming meant. It meant she would never be fully satisfied; it meant she'd always be somewhere other than where she wanted to be. Dreaming meant that no matter what she did, how hard she tried, there would always be something bigger, better, more grand, more polished, more poised. There would never be anything just right, because there would always be a dream.

And the rain had given her the answer. It had told her what exactly she should do. It had reminded her to peer through the soot on her skin, the calluses on her feet, the blisters on her hands, straight to her very own soul, where everything was straightforward, understandable, and manageable at every level.

The rain had reminded her of a resource, and she'd used it.

It had been a revealing experience for Ella – looking into herself and actually seeing what was there. She'd been outwardly focused so long, it was as if her own inner knowledge were a book that had been left to gather the dust and grime of ages, unopened. But when she'd taken the time to understand herself, it was as if she – or the essence of her – had been kept clean, as if for this specific moment.

In her heart, she knew there were two paths, and she knew they'd lead to endless others. She'd been poised to take the first, and then, she'd looked.

Yes, she could live in dreams. She could live never knowing the outcome of an imaginary ball in a parallel universe – she could stay safe that way, never having to realize the consequences – or rewards – that one dreamlike reality might have brought her.

She could, but she wouldn't.

It was so ironic that she'd dreamed so often of an opportunity for anything magical, even in a less than literal sense, and she'd been perfectly willing to go along and keep dreaming, ignoring the chance that stared her in the face. It was too ironic – the dreams were becoming addictive.

Ella realized this in full now. She knew it to her core; this was it. There was now, and there would be tomorrow. No reason to take anything beyond that – if you were living in a dream. As Ella had been.

But now, she wasn't.

No longer was Ella listening to the pattering on the roof. No longer was she reminiscing, sweeping, gazing longingly out the window.

Grimacing at her own understanding, Ella took two steps at a time up the stairs, determinedly setting her jaw. She could and she would. She pulled open the wardrobe that held all of her belongings. They were few, but fine – her stepsisters and her so-called mother never went up in the attic; it was too strenuous a journey for women of such "fine caliber."

The ball gown was even more beautiful than she had remembered. It was old fashioned to be sure, but better that than a newer gown with a plunging neckline. And the bodice on her mother's gown rivaled any that Ella had seen anywhere – it was creamy white silk with silver embroidery in beautiful patterns of curving lines. And the skirt – oh, the skirt. The same cream colored silk as the bodice, but the silver embroidery here was one of a kind. The threads were expertly woven into the pattern that rain looked like when it hit a window – endless and broken up trails of silver water that joined, thickened, thinned, and simply seemed to drip down the cream base of the gown and gather at the bottom in a silver stream. Ella imagined that they were people in their daily lives - meeting for the first time, running in parallel paths of existence, then once again breaking apart on their separate journeys to find purpose.

Even Ella could appreciate and understand the splendor of this dress. She knew it was one of a kind anywhere, and not just physically, but because her mother had left it to her.

Her mother.

Ella tried to swallow the knot in her throat, and looked away.

Did she deserve this? Would her mother approve? How was this supposed to happen? Was it supposed to happen? Endless and unanswerable questions bubbled up into her mind, filling her with doubts, second thoughts. They seemed to know just where her resolve would soften, just what to ask next in order to send her tumbling into mental chaos.

And then the rain got louder. Or at least, that's what it seemed like to Ella – it may have been that she was in the attic instead of on the first floor, but it didn't matter. She felt the rain in her blood. She felt it once again push the turmoil to the far reaches of her vulnerable mind, as if breaking it like a glass vase and sweeping it into a dustbin.

Ella took another grief-filled glance at the dress.

This wasn't a masquerade ball, she knew, but she'd be in masquerade anyway – she'd be in masquerade as her mother. Who had led a fairytale reality. That was what Ella wanted – what she couldn't forge for herself. Yes, she would go to the ball, but it would be almost as bad as dreaming – it wouldn't be a reality, simply because it wouldn't be her. It would be her mother.

Ella tried to swallow the knot in her throat again.

She took another look at the gown.

It was so symbolic. It was as if her mother had known that Ella wouldn't lead the happy life as a merchants daughter everyone had thought she would. It was like an invitation to a new life – back to where she belonged, almost. A key to a new world.

But it was just a dress. A silly, frivolous, ball gown that had no place in her life other than being pretty. It sat in a closet all day; it had no function.

Lifting her chin, Ella picked it up. She slipped it on.

The rain became softer.

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Thanks a load to you nice reviewers!!! I hope this is an okay update... I personally like it, but in this world, I don't matter. You do. And honestly, this is the fastest update I've ever put up in my fanfiction life. And it was because of inspiring reviews. applause 


	3. Chapter 3

Epitome of a Tin Roof - Chapter Three

Ella felt like she was staring into a soulless window, through which she could see the noble and aristocratic society she'd thought she'd always belong to. All she had to do was look past the mockery of the fake reflection of her, to the ballroom beyond, and she could sense the excitement bubble up beneath her skin. Even so, she controlled every pang of stray emotion that leapt through her stationary body. She had to – one move, one accidental, irreversible twitch or blink, and this entire illusion would shatter to fragments, impossible to reconstruct.

One move, and Ella would once again be plunged into the suffocating reality of the unalterable situation, because even Ella knew the truth - that her so-called reflection would not move with her.

There was no mirror. There was no glittering pool of stagnant water, and what was more, Ella knew that there probably never would be. A mirror would have to reflect reality, and here, reality was complicated – here, reality involved the past and the future, and not just the present. And reality, in its all-encompassing scrutiny, was harsh. That had been a lesson that Ella had learned at a young age – maybe even too young an age. And it was due to that lesson that Ella stood not in front of a mirror, as she so desperately imagined, but a painting.

If a mirror could have portrayed this scene authentically, it might have juxtaposed a careless abandon of titled society to the stark and shabby fittings of a dusty lower class attic. A mirror might have shown Ella how she might appear to the rest of the world in the next few hours – an old-fashioned young woman, uncertain and shy. It might have openly displayed the honest discomfort she felt, standing in a borrowed gown that didn't quite fit right, in a borrowed world that she barely understood and had never truly belonged to.

The painting, on the other hand… it dressed the situation in artificial finery, masking Ella in an illusion she'd need to get through the night intact, as herself. It built Ella up with a valid strength from the inside, because the painting depicted her mother.

It was ironic: a mother that Ella had never really known could be such a pillar of strength. It didn't matter who her mother had actually been, because she would always be Ella's mother, a symbol of something that could have been – but wasn't. She had been a mother, and that was all Ella really knew her as, and that was all that really mattered. In the great scheme of things, Ella considered this preferable to having a resentful or negative mother, because Ella could create her own role model. The word "mother" had been left to Ella to define for herself, and she felt fortunate to this end. But even she couldn't pretend that she hadn't lain in bed at night and stared out at the stars, wishing for just a few minutes of time to meet the real woman, who's ill-fated absence had changed Ella's life so dramatically.

The painting that she'd had as far back as she could remember answered some questions. Ella knew that her mother was attractive, in a timeless classical sense, rather than in the fashion of whatever time it had been when the painting was commissioned. Ella knew from her father that her mother had died of some disease when Ella had been one and a half. She hadn't thought to ask what disease it had been, because it just seemed to make sense – her mother was dead. That was all there was to it. Ella knew the facts, and barely those. The rest had been left up to imagination.

Slowly, Ella mentally prepared herself. She blinked and sat down on the bed, doing her best not to wrinkle the cream colored skirts that floated around her. Just as she'd known, the delusion was ruined. It wasn't a disappointment, anymore. Everyday, illusions were erected and broken down, and all a person could do was learn to live with it. That was life.

Carefully and deliberately, Ella slipped first one foot, then the other in the would-be frivolous glass shoes, smiling at her own caution. Warily, she stood up in a cascade of faux silver rain, testing each slipper's durability, mindful of the glass shards that would doubtless dig into her feet if the slippers were crushed under the shoes of an unmindful partner. Now was not the time for haste.

Then, a streak of lightning illuminated the room in bright blue for a fraction of a moment, a peal of thunder following almost immediately in the lightning's wake. For a moment, Ella couldn't hear the rain. And then -

Ah, there it was. The reassuring sound of an elemental security blanket that Ella had been able to draw around her shoulders in times of distress for years. She hadn't realized it before now, but imminently, it was obvious – the way the monotonous _drip drip drip _on the metal roof had lulled her to sleep when she was younger, the way the rain seemed to disguise any tears that fell from her eyes as simple raindrops, and nothing more than that. They were services the rain offered to everyone, and yet, to Ella, they held a mysterious significance. She wanted to feel special, and this solemn and purely accidental attention was enough to accomplish that for a poor orphan.

Ella was ready. She was ready to get to the ball in whatever fashion made itself manifest to her, and she was ready to enjoy herself. She was ready to take her mother's name and her mother's past, and turn it into her own for a night.

Ella lifted her chin proudly, and took the first step down the staircase, prepared to resolve whatever obstacle decided to plant itself in her way next.

Just as she had put her foot down for the second step, thunder sounded, yet again.

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A/N: This story is so weird to write... I really appreciate all of the wonderful reviews, because they're really helpful as to what I'm supposed to be doing here. This is a record for me; three chapters in three weeks? Unheard of. I usually end up doing one chapter every six months on other stories... hmm...

It's getting harder to incorporate rain, but I'm doing my best here. After all, it is called "Epitome of a Tin Roof," so what's that supposed to mean, if there isn't rain? I'm not really sure what else to say here, except that maybe I've worked out a sort of semi-plot thing. But that's going to be really hard, because the plot doesn't really move fast at all. I mean, I'm having to debate how to incorporate dialogue here - or if I even should.

Sorry about my ramblings, and thanks for humoring me. Maybe, if I'm still on this inspirational roll, I'll get another chapter out soon. That would really break my record...

Not that you care. So yeah. Thanks!!! Bye.


	4. Chapter 4

Epitome of a Tin Roof

It was slightly difficult to maneuver down the stairs wearing glass slippers and an almost fragile ball gown. That had been an oversight that Ella had realized too late – it was much easier to move oneself around when _not _wearing breakable shoes and a massive dress. As it were, she had to carefully plan each potentially shattering, painful step so that the heels of her shoes wouldn't catch on the silver hem of the long skirts, or shred the petticoats beyond any repair Ella may have been able to administer. She hoped intensely that everything – the shoes, the ball gown, the gloves, the jewelry, all of it – would survive the night intact, and live on as reminders of her own personal fairytale. Manifestations of her one earthly dream-come-true. It was a lot to hope for, but then again, this chance had been a lot to hope for. And it had happened anyway.

She shuffled down, step by step, growing impatient from the inside out. It was strange how impatience worked – it was like a pumpkinseed; it started out small, and eventually, it would grow, and take over the whole garden. Ella imagined that she could feel it, digging its roots into her core, and growing through her heart in its journey to her mind. But impatience was like so many other feelings – a weed.

The staircase was dark, except for a lone window that let the moon empty its white luminescent rays onto the top of every step, casting shadows on their lower ledges. It was really an anomaly that Ella could see the moon at all, for the clouds were thick and dark. Even so, they seemed to part around the white orb that ruled the night sky, framing it with beautiful shapes of clouds that the moon's radiant beams of light could accost from behind, perfectly illuminating the wispy seeming, yet dense, formations.

Ella held still for a moment, entranced by the vision of the rain, seen through the light of the moon by some miracle of nature. The fat droplets splattered on the window, outlining the very pattern of inspiringly beautiful elegant lines that the gown she was now wearing had been patterned on. It struck her once again that she was just an imitation. She wore an imitation of the rain, she was an imitation of her mother's beautiful existence… even the locket her father had given her could only ever be an imitation, for it too tried to mimic; it would never achieve the full glory of the moon, no matter how much torchlight its silver veneer reflected back into lonely and forgotten corners.

Imitation was a tradeoff that Ella was willing to live with.

She shook her head as if to clear it of the undeniable beauty she had just witnessed, aware that she had seen what so many people would disregard. She'd seen a window – she'd seen the way it framed the world, tailoring it so that the viewer's perception of the land beyond was skewed. Skewed, yes, but exquisite. The window was almost an entity – it knew how to exhibit things so that they were clear and beautiful to all that could see, young or old. All one had to do was look, and so many didn't.

Furthermore, Ella had seen the window. She hadn't seen past it, like the droves that stared into their own nightmares or alternative realities. They were the ones who took the windows of the world for granted, paying no heed to the invisible vessel that satiated the many curiosities of their greedy minds, when really, the window was everything.

The window. It was the one that let the rain's delicate painting be conceived upon the fabric of reality, never searching for recognition to call its own. The roof, too, was so under appreciated – it carried the echoes of endless drops through its very essence and delivered them to Ella's ears, while all the while, the rain kept wearing it down in a senseless tirade. It was only natural that all of this should happen – the rain, for all of its subtlety, was crafty – it was in the spotlight, a sophisticated actor, in close comparison to a couple of stage hands, who were by all rights equally important.

The relationship between the manmade and the elemental was palpable, once Ella observed. It wasn't like there was feeling there – they simply relied, like the reliance of an iris on the sunlight. The iris was naïve of the sun's existence, but that didn't mean that it could ever survive without the vitally necessary waves of healthy daylight.

Nature. It was so complex, but in its levels of complexity, everything made sense, and fell into its own place with a purpose and a way to go about fulfilling that purpose, dutifully. It wasn't like human society – or rather, it was what human society should be. There weren't silly mores or expectations, and everything was equal. Equality – the great standard. Equality – so often a farce. Yes, tonight and ever other day, the rain, Nature, would be center stage. The window, the roof, they would be pushed aside to make room for yet another actor or actress…

Ella smiled.

_She_ had been the window. _She_ had been the roof. Silently accepting, uncomplainingly taking years of being abused by the very family she'd once thought she'd belonged to.

Well, tonight would be different. Tonight, Ella would take center stage. It was the least the owed herself. It was the least she owed her legacy – and her mother. She glanced down at the dress she wore, and pictured that sentimental painting in her convoluted mind. That painting was her. There was no illusion. She was her family as much as she was Ella. So what if the hair color was off a tad? So what if Ella's eyes weren't quite that shape? Her mother was still a mother, her father a father.

Her family, though gone, was a family.

Ella threw a final fleeting look out the window to the moonlight illuminated raindrops. What was that? Did she dare believe that she'd seen a face materialize from the rivulets of water gracing the pane? It had looked like it had come and gone in less than a second, if it had existed at all…

Ella hobbled down the last few steps, and placed one slender hand on the doorknob.

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Hello again, and thank you, wonderful reviewers!!! I feel like I'm beginning to repeat the same stuff, so I'll try to avoid that next chapter. Sorry this was slightly late. I don't even particularly like this chapter; I mean, I don't hate it, but I'm just kind of ... neutral, I suppose. I don't know. Hopefully I'll work out my writing woes soon enough to get a good chapter out sometime within the next week. Thanks!!! 


	5. Chapter 5

Epitome of a Tin Roof

It was chilly outside.

Even so, the cold was more of an insulating, exhilarating climate rather than an energy drawing freeze. It was a preserving cold, and its fingerlike tendrils slowly went over every square inch of Ella, as if identifying her for future reference. She shuddered at it, but didn't mean it; in fact, she felt a kinsmanship with the bitter temperature – it too was disliked just because it existed. It too was often wished away, in preference for a more naturally pleasant climate.

Nothing could control its nature – the very essence that made it what it was. And so many times, people were judged – anything was judged – as if they'd had a choice as to what they would be, what they would mean – as if they'd had a choice as to the color of their thread in the tapestry of millions. People just didn't understand that not everyone could be a bright turquoise, or a deep, elegant magenta. There were always the browns, the blacks, the greys… you couldn't have any tapestry at all without them.

The question was, though – could a thread change colors? Ella mused for a few moments. Could a person become someone else? Could dirt brown become royal blue?

There was no answer. Ella knew almost as soon as she'd asked herself the question that there was, in fact, no real, touchable answer that could show her the universe. She'd asked one of the questions that only the universe knew the answer to, and she had no knowledge of the language that the universe spoke. It spoke in trees, the winds, the water… it spoke even in the cold.

The insulating, comforting cold.

That in itself was ironic, yet in the irony, it was perfect. The Universe. Talking in subtle changes to every person, directing life everywhere to fill its niche. The very thought of it made Ella smile to herself; maybe she did have some knowledge of the universe.

But really, it wasn't important right now. The rain, as beautiful as it was, had provided a difficulty: Ella had no way of reaching the palace. Everything up to now had fallen in place, as if the cards had all been right there from the beginning, perfectly planned out in a coherent strategy. And now, Ella had run out of cards. Typical. So many dreams ended when the final card had been played… Ella didn't want her dream to join their ranks.

Even so, it was looking like it might. The icy, sleety night, and the blank uniform rain stared back at Ella as she hugged the porch rail, trying to draw some sort of solitary comfort from its inevitable presence. As if hugging it to her body would somehow produce a horse and carriage…

And there… what was that? The rain distorted Ella's vision to the point where she could only see an elegant white form, but as it came closer, the shape actualized into the figure of a magnificent stallion. The rain slid off of his coat like water on fine wax, giving the illusion of something surreal, mysterious, and, above all, striking. The patterns the droplets took down his broad back were like the fine lace of an aristocrat's handkerchief, and his mane and tail dripped with beads of water, refusing to repel the blessed substance, as if in dissent with the rest of the horse's beautiful coat. The stallion stepped lithely through the open yard, accepting the falling water with an acknowledging and tender grace, flaring his nostrils here and there. He knew he was handsome, and his gait reflected it – it was a pretty step, a stylish twist of the foot, and a powerful stride. Muscles rippled beneath the well kempt waxy white coat, and Ella could not help her admiration.

Before she knew what she'd done, Ella had slung herself across this white stallion's back, and he was sauntering carefully, conscientious of his load. It didn't occur to her that the rain might wreak havoc on the delicate gown, or how silly she must have appeared, an aristocratic-looking and gilded young woman with glass slippers, riding through the cobbled streets on a white and saddle-less horse, her hands buried in its mane. All the mortification she may have felt was drowned out by the sweet sense of adrenaline and rain, coursing through her veins as one. Here it was: the final piece of the puzzle. And now, she was on her way, mounted on a regal ivory stallion who cantered through the streets, the reverberation of his steps on the cobblestones muffled by the rain.

Ella's home that she'd grown to despise faded into the night as the horse went further and further. She saw the marketplace where she'd spent so much time, haggling for overpriced wares and giggling at the dramatic antics of egocentric salespeople. They passed the tailor, and the shoemaker, and the blacksmith. She liked him – he'd always been able to joke around, and never took his work so seriously that he couldn't' stop for a moment or two to talk to her. Like the father Ella had wished she'd had. And on they went, passing few people, and fewer who cared to raise their head to stare at the girl in a woman's dress on the majestic white horse.

At one point, either the speed or the wind picked up, and the white mane flew up to tickle Ella's chin. Face raised to the cloudy sky, she laughed in the exhilaration of the moment, almost forgetting where she was going – it was to be a fantastic ball, but would it not be more fantastic to simply ride on, through the night? A dream, yes, a dream – there would be the ball. And she would, of course, go, if only for the experience of a millennium.

Urging the faded stallion to the castle, and therein, the dream, Ella did not feel the difference when one of her glass slippers slid off. It tumbled quietly, and by the time it had the laconic decency to shatter on the cobbles, Ella was gone.

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**So - the long awaited (or at least, I hope so) chapter. I did something quite strange in this, and I hope you all forgive me for it. I have several reasons for why this took so long, and here they are: first of all, whatever I did in this was going to define my plot for the rest of the story. And I was having issues with that. The way it is going to end is going to be better now, for the time I took, so I hope you all don't particularly mind. Also, I've had marching band, and now I have winterguard and (hopefully - cast list comes out Monday) a part in The Sound of Music. Yeah. Talk about time.**

**Well, I really hope you all don't mind the turn I took with this - it's not the usual philosophic thing, but I didn't let up on description. And I hope you don't mind my turn into the surreal - it was necessary to make this half decent. I could've ended with her going to the ball and seeing the Prince, and deciding to run away, or just live happily, or whatever, but I feel that this is much better. It may be slightly confusing, but I hope it comes clear in later chapters.**

**Ah, well, I've ranted quite enough now. Please review!!! It would make my day. And all of you who are still reading this, rock on.**


	6. Chapter 6

Epitome of a Tin Roof

One second, she was mounted on the stallion, wind racing through her body, figuratively flying (or was it literal?) towards the palace. 

The next she was dismounting, hands buried in the white mane. Ella was detached from reality. She didn't question – or even notice – that her dress was miraculously dry. She didn't discern that she was missing a slipper, even when one of her feet was planted firmly on the cold cobbles, the other on cold glass. It was dreamlike – any discomforts, worries, speculations she'd had had all disappeared, fallen away into an abyss that she didn't know to recognize.

Ella was late for the ball, and the prince was no longer at the door greeting those who'd chosen to come, but rather dancing with them amid the splendor of an almost completely gilded ballroom. The shamed girl lifted her chin, opposing the emotions that swarmed her. Unescorted, she made her 'grand' entrance to the palace of the King.

No one noticed as she slipped into the ballroom; it was as Ella wished. A sudden fear should have seized her – she was disguised, alone, her stepfamily was here, she was just a serving girl – but the common fears had found themselves trapped in that same abyss as her worries, and couldn't manifest themselves in her. It was curious – Ella herself studied the changes that had somehow come to be in her already unique person, hardly understanding how they'd come to exist.

Her musings were interrupted, and for the first time in her life, Ella was asked to dance. It seemed a pleasant waltz, and Ella nodded, refusing to speak not in timidity, but rather her own quiet nature. The young man took her hand and led her slowly into the mob of dancers who all seemed in their own worlds. She wondered if she seemed like that to the rest of them.

Ella could have sworn her ignorance of dance prior to the ball, but now she found that her feet just seemed to parallel the music.

At least, they wanted to. But a glass slipper was missing. Ella finally noticed – her feet had been hidden by the copious tresses of her ball gown. Correction: her mother's ball gown.

Blushing deeply, she looked up at the kind young man who'd offered her a dance. A smile played upon his lips, and he seemed to understand. He seemed on the verge of laughter, really.

"Where?" It was one word, but Ella knew what he meant, and indicated that she had no idea. She could feel a smile beginning at the corners of her mouth as well, and didn't resist. As if by default, he helped her to search for it.

Smiling at his chivalry (he'd chosen to check outside for her, so that she might not dirty her gown in the rain), Ella leaned on the wall and slid the glass shoe she'd managed to refrain from losing off of her foot. She held the glass in her hand, studying it for a few moments. It was a beautiful item. It fit her foot perfectly – a luxury that few could know. It wasn't cheap glass, either – it was clear, without a bluish tinge. When she wore the slippers, regardless of how careful she had to be when wearing them, Ella looked like she was flying. Dancing, they would be even more beautiful. Her grin widened to a smile. When she danced, she would look like a faerie princess, feet never touching the cold slate of the floor.

But that was the thing. Ella was not a faerie princess. Ella was not her mother. Ella was – she was, well, Ella.

She ran a thumb over the heel of the magnificent article.

Frowning, Ella forcefully threw the slipper against the ground.

It shattered.

Ella smiled.

She moved away on bare feet, wary not to let the shards of glass dig into her uncovered soles. Spotting the young man as he reentered the spacious room, Ella made her way over to him. He shook his head apologetically, and Ella shrugged. He took her hand, and together, they reentered the mob of dancers.

* * *

Dancing was what life was supposed to be about. Ella had decided this quickly, long before nameless hands had offered her countless dances. The heaviest waltz felt light as air once her feet began to move to it – rhythms embedded themselves in her mind and her soul, and the universal language took hold of her time after time as partner after partner took her hands.

At first, they'd been cautious about dancing with her. Only the braver, usually younger, men danced with Ella at first. Then others started asking for dances, as they noticed how she seemed to suspend herself within each moment, each beat of the exquisite music. It was just as a ball was supposed to be, Ella mused: the highlight of the tragic young peasant's life. But she enjoyed it for all it was worth.

Periodically, the first young man would request another dance. And Ella, remembering his kind and rather taciturn nature, would grant the request. She preferred him to be her fellow dancer, but knew the social mores well enough; waltzing with a single partner for a night was never looked well upon.

It was such a waltz when the same young man led Ella away from the crowd.

"I'd like you to meet someone."

Two corridors and a twisted staircase later, they faced a tall, oak door. The young man looked Ella straight in the eyes, and pushed it open, standing somberly as she surveyed its one inhabitant.

Startled, Ella took a step back.

"Mother."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, so we've got a load of random stuff in here, the style is completely falling apart, and, to boot, it's a late chapter. Sorry about all of that. I was feeling semi-inspired, so I wrote. I hope this isn't too much of a disappointment; I think I've got one chapter left. Originally, I thought this was going to be the last chapter, but then, that didn't work out.

It kind of sucks that I've switched point of view. That makes me mad at myself; it's a more limited point of view, and this was a great deal less philosophical. But I'll be interested in seeing what you all think! I've added some major elements that could tip people off as to what's going on - I promise you all, this isn't some stupid twist (well, some of you may think it is, but I don't).

Well, as always, please review. I'll try to get the final chapter out as soon as possible! (And after that, there's a poem.)


	7. Chapter 7

Epitome of a Tin Roof - Final chapter! (Or final real chapter, anyway.)

**THE AUTHOR'S NOTE HERE IS BEFORE THE CHAPTER!! PLEASE READ IT!**

**Okay, greatest apologies that this is so late. Really. But I feel like this story is falling apart. I butchered my way through this chapter, so I'm quite sorry about that - I'm hoping its not too terrible to stomach. In any case, I can pretty much promise that there is going to be some heavy editing for this chapter and a couple others, though I can't promise when. Also, I will say that the writing style here picks up speed. Majorly. With some major dialogue. At first, I was against the idea, but now, I'm liking it. It's like the rest of the story was a slowmotion clip, and suddenly, its started flying by at the speed of real life. I'm sorry if you don't like the way I thought to end this - I do feel a bit pretentious for it, but really, I like the concept, so its sticking.**

**This chapter is fast. I don't know if that's good or bad. I'm hoping its good. I just feel like reiterating that, because this chapter really isn't like any of the others. Also, there are some places where you might think I went crazy. I didn't. It's supposed to be like that. You can verify it with me if you want to PM me or something, but whatever. I'll shut up now.**

The woman stood up carefully, as if standing were an art. She was a beautiful woman, young in appearance but for the crow's feet at the corners of her smiling eyes. Her presence, seeming to take up the room in its entirety, was formidable – charismatic in its very essence. Ella, for all that she'd remembered, had forgotten so much – the smile, the poise. But then again, she'd only known this woman for a short time – the time when she better remembered the way her mother's melodic voice seemed to weave intricate bed-time tales, the time when she better remembered daisy chains and farcical songs.

And yet, this woman before her and the woman of her memories were one and the same.

Ella thought it one instant and forgot it the next.

"Mother, I wasn't expecting to meet you here."

"Oh, but Ellie, however could I have missed your day?" Her mother's warm eyes welcomed Ella into their depths, and Ella smiled. How perfect today had been! So many pieces had fallen into place, so many little things had just turned out so perfectly… and here was her mother! After years of absence, and here she was. "And why haven't you introduced me?" Ella's mother gestured at the young man, who had faded into the shade of the hallway, behind the threshold.

Ella blushed and looked at her feet, fidgeting nervously for no reason she could comprehend.

"I'm afraid I haven't properly introduced myself to Ella, Madame," he interceded, stepping into the room. "But – "

He was cut off, in turn, by a butler at his shoulder.

"Milord, if I may…"

"Yes?"

"Someone found these outside, on the stairs – though I daresay someone must have left them there as well, if I may, milord. They don't appear to have been hurt by the rain. I thought you might know what to do with them. It's quite lovely craftsmanship, if I may, milord." The butler bowed his head respectfully, and handed the young man a pair of glass slippers.

_The_ pair of glass slippers.

"Ella – you were looking for one of these, weren't you?" He held the slippers out for her to examine, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

"Yes, I was – I wonder how the other one got there. I don't remember taking it off, but it's definitely mine. Both are. How curious." She smiled, and took them gratefully, running her thumb over the contours of seamless glass admiringly. "They're quite lovely."

"If I may, milord, you are being missed. It is not protocol for a prince to miss his own ball." The butler interjected.

"Shall we rejoin them?" The Prince suggested casually to both Ella and her mother. Then, to Ella alone, "Shall we dance, so that the rest of the world might think that you fly, suspended on glass?"

Smiling, Ella plunked the glass slippers haphazardly on the ground, not even thinking to fear that they might break. She rested her feet lightly in them, and took the Prince's arm first, then her mother's.

* * *

Ella's stepmother and stepsisters were riding home in a chariot after the ball, pleased with themselves. They'd gorged on fine wines and fine foods, fit for kings and queens. To boot, the younger of the stepsisters had danced three dances (two waltzes) with the prince, and would have danced more had it not been for societal restrictions. They were content.

Suddenly, they felt a bump in the road. The chariot stopped. All three peered out the little windows on the sides, trying to figure out what exactly had happened.

It was the eldest who saw it first – the body, frozen and blue, with hair matted to its face and chest. They got out to look closer, determined to discern whether it was someone they knew.

It was the youngest who noticed what the body – the girl, they'd managed to tell – was wearing. She was bedecked in a gloriously beautiful gown, gloriously beautiful jewelry, and gloriously… _familiar_ opera gloves.

"Those look like mine," the eldest daughter, Victoria, commented, gesturing at the gloves.

"Why isn't she wearing shoes?" The younger demanded.

"What a waste of such expensive material. It's ruined now, I should think. What with the rain and the mud and all," the stepmother continued.

"Do you think that since she's dead, whoever it is, we can take the locket and tiara? It won't matter to her anymore."

"I don't see why not."

"They are really lovely after all, and it would be such a waste if someone else came by and took them."

"Oh, at the ball tomorrow, you can wear them!"

"The prince won't be able to take his eyes off of you!"

"Perfect!"

"It's quite extraordinary that none of us recognizes this girl. I thought we knew just about everyone anywhere near this well-to-do."

"I daresay that she looks quite a bit like Ella, but she's home, and she could never have managed all this. And her hands! Ella's were always so hard and callused, and this woman's are soft, like real gentility."

"Ella's never been this lovely. She's always covered in soot, anyway."

"It's a corpse, and you're calling it lovely?"

"It's getting late girls. We can call that man who keeps the graveyard tomorrow. Maybe he can burn it. It can't be stinking up the streets forever."

"Oh, but he's so disagreeable!"

"Nevertheless."

"How absolutely intriguing. Now we'll have a story to tell!"

* * *

"Mother! I can't find my opera gloves anywhere!"

"And where's Ella? Isn't she supposed to help us dress each morning? I haven't seen her since last night!"

"Patience girls, patience girls. The lazy always get what's coming to them."

* * *

**Okay, so it's such a stupid ending... but I don't know. I kind of like it for its stupidity. Whatever. It would be really nice to know what you all think I should change or whatever, but I completely understand if you're holding a grudge against me for not updating in forever.  
**

* * *


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